


sad birds still sing

by blood_on_my_carpet_again



Category: DreamSMP, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF, mcyt
Genre: Angst, Bird Hybrid Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Hurt Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Phil Watson Needs a Hug (Video Blogging RPF), Winged Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Winged Wilbur Soot, based off a quote on pinterest lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-20 23:41:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30012750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blood_on_my_carpet_again/pseuds/blood_on_my_carpet_again
Summary: Even as his son rested his face against his shoulder, covered in burns and blood. He coughed out a tune, one only for his ears. It wasn’t a nice song, it was one of betrayal, of loss. It carried it’s message through the hushed whispers it was sung as.He whispered his own song, a melody of trust, of forgiveness, of love. Yet loss laced his song as well, grief and pain already settled its roots deep into his heart, his mind, and body. He had done exactly what his little boy had asked from him.
Relationships: Phil Watson & Wilbur Soot
Kudos: 23





	sad birds still sing

_ Sad birds still sing. _

Even as his son rested his face against his shoulder, covered in burns and blood. He coughed out a tune, one only for his ears. It wasn’t a nice song, it was one of betrayal, of loss. It carried it’s message through the hushed whispers it was sung as. 

His arms were wrapped ever so tightly around the boy who was now as much of a man as he was. Who had built his own nation, only to topple it over himself. His hand gripped the handle of the sword, even if he was shaking, he couldn’t bear to let go. To let go of somebody he held so dear.

He hadn’t even noticed that the song had finished. That his little boy was gone in those mere seconds. That he died in his arms, that he died from his hands. He died of his own request and Phil was simply the messenger.

He rocked back and forth, ever so slowly. His hand running through the singed hair atop his son’s head. His wings wrapped around the two of them, blocking and shunning the views of anybody near. This wasn’t for them to see. This wasn’t for their cries of pain and of heartbreak. It was his.

He whispered his own song, a melody of trust, of forgiveness, of love. Yet loss laced his song as well, grief and pain already settled its roots deep into his heart, his mind, and body. He had done exactly what his little boy had asked from him.

He gave him the freedom to do what he wanted when he demanded it from him. He had watched him leave home, leave him and the world he was in. He watched Wilbur climb atop a mountain he built with his own two hands, calling it his home, laying his stake to the world with a brother by his side. He watched as he went to war, he read the letters sent, he had been proud.

Why did he throw it all away? Where did he go wrong? When did the little innocent, happy, and bright child that he knew descend into a raving lunatic? Into a man who had little will to continue, to thrive off of a victory won, to live?

Even when the tears rolled down his cheeks, when they burned his already hurting eyes, when they fought to break him. He whispered his song, just for the little boy in his arms. Just for Wilbur Soot, a child lost to his own mind.


End file.
